


live fast, die young

by aestheticisms (R_Vienna)



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bikers, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-01-25 22:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1664762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Vienna/pseuds/aestheticisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>LIVE FAST DIE YOUNG BAD GIRLS DO IT WELL</p>
<p>"Okay, so, hear me out. I've got an idea." </p>
<p>Tharja and Aversa exchange a glance, before turning towards the silver haired demon in front of them, clasping her hands over her chest. </p>
<p>"Let's start a gang." </p>
<p>Robin becomes the leader of a girl gang. Plegia's never been more terrified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. thin mints

**Author's Note:**

> a series of vignettes concerning robin's run as the morningstar, leader of the girl gang "dragonskin", and before she gets into an accident that prompts her memory loss and run in with the rival gang, the shepherds. 
> 
> it's a really self indulgent biker gang au i'm not sorry tharja/robin/aversa lives on forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aversa disses Tharja’s delicate palate. Robin really thinks about picking up some Advil on the way back.

“Tharja, darling, those shorts don’t look good on you.” 

Well, that was one way to start the day. 

“Did you ransack the cupboard again? It’s getting kind of noticeable.” Aversa’s grin is cruel, mocking, her fingers press against the shorter girl’s opaque tights, until Tharja hisses and smacks away Aversa’s dark brown hand.

“Eat shit. I can hex you into next Thursday and you’re concerned over my lacking thigh gap? Go fuck yourself.” 

To prove her point, she took another cookie from Robin’s box, open and inviting, and stuffed a caramel coconut cookie into her mouth. 

Robin grins, flicking her silver hair back, and shooting an almost apologetic look towards the oldest member of their group.

“You know Tharja, ‘Versy. She’s always down for supporting budding Satanists. The Girl Scouts is her favorite non-profit organization.”

She leans back on the crushed velvet and suede couch, coffee-stained and rickety from years of use, and props her long legs on the table that separated her from the other two girls, squabbling on the love seat. Tharja threw her a pout, and Robin blew her a kiss. 

“Gag me with a rusty spoon, Robin. Call me “Versy” again, and the last verse you’ll hear will be the one I recite at your funeral.” 

She rolls her eyes, and takes another cookie, careful not to let any crumbs fall on her pleated leather skirt. Her baggy hoodie was fair game, though. 

“Whatever, biscuit, my house, my rules. You gotta treat each other nice! I have your last landlord on speed dial, and I’m _preeeeetty_ sure he still wants his rent for the six months you lived there.” 

Aversa deflates. She clears her throat, and crosses her long, long legs at the knee and then crosses her arms under her tattooed chest, because that’s Aversa for you, always looking for a strategy, always looking for a move to make to further her own plot. 

That’s why Robin likes her. Aversa gives her a grimace, thin-lipped and bitter. The slinky strap on her dress slides off her shoulder, and she makes no move to fix it. Tharja takes one, or four, more cookies and wraps them in a napkin and shoves them into the inner pocket of her jacket.

Speaking of. Aversa’s pity party could wait. 

“Hey, Tharja? Where’d you get the new jacket from?” 

Tharja blinks, like a cat caught playing with a mouse, she’s the picture of piety. As pious as a nineteen year old with eyeliner sharper than the switchblade hidden between her breasts can be, oh, yes, she was an absolute saint. She tilts her head ever so slightly and then giggles, a dark and low,  _hehehehe,_ covered by her gold ringed hands. Aversa shoots her a look of displeasure and does everything to widen the distance between them, eventually finding herself sitting on the armrest.

“It was a gift.” 

“That was terribly anticlimactic.” Robin purses her painted lips, black licorice against caramel skin. She leans forward and digs her elbows into her thighs, puts her chin on her hands. “Booooooring.” 

Tharja shrugs, dusts off her shorts and fixes the jacket in question—black leather, purple underneath the right conditions, with six golden eyes on the collar, three on her left, three on her right. When the jacket was zipped all the way up, the effect was terrifying, but when it was halfway off and slowly making its way to the sofa, it was a little more comical. 

“I told a friend I needed a jacket that matched the rest of you. Versy’s got the eye motif the back of her jacket, and you’ve got the eyes on the sleeves.” She takes a moment to examine her chipped nail polish. “And lucky me, he got me one. Curse not included, which was great.” 

_Ohhhhhhh_. That made a lot more sense.

“Do tell Henry we send our love next time you see him. Unless your game of tonsil hockey gets in the way of simple pleasantries.” 

Aversa does not dodge the pillow that comes her way. The offending piece of velveteen hits the side of her face, and the white haired woman falls to the side in a dramatic fashion. 

Robin sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose with a gloved hand. Ignoring that. 

Time to get this show on the road. She pulls her long hair into a ponytail, silver locks brush against her back, some strands get stuck between the spikes on her shoulders, others get tucked behind sloppily sewn patches. 

The Morningstar. Robin’s not too sure she remembers how she got branded that, but sewing it onto her jacket was certainly an adventure. 

“All right ladies, we’ve got things to do today!” 

She takes another breath, and quickly glances towards the front door. 

“Our bikes are still pretty banged up from our last soiree, and I really, really don’t want the insurance to go up this year, so let’s get those fixed up and then we can grab some actual groceries.” 

Aversa shrugs. “Sure, whatever.” She takes her sweet time getting off the sofa, and spends a couple of minutes looking for her purse and jacket. Her jacket was a lot older than the other girl’s, she’s been in the business for years now—heralded as the Black Widow on their side of Plegia. 

Tharja bounces out of her seat, grabs Robin’s hand, and twines their fingers together before she has a chance to react. 

“Let’s gooooo, then.” Henry’s jacket fit just right on her, maybe a little smaller than it would’ve looked on the original owner, but the dark mage already transferred her patch to the sleeve. The Witch. She certainly looks the part, with her elegant golden headpiece, and her long, raven black hair, and…that was actually about it, considering the purple crop top and tattooed sides really didn’t scream “I can make your life more miserable than the morning commute on the freeway during a twelve car pileup cleanup.” 

Jeez.

"Fine, fine, let’s go." Tharja squeezes her hand tighter. 

Before hurrying out the door, Robin checks their home away from home one last time. The kitchen was still a disaster in the distance, looming and terribly frightening with its cluttered sink and age old cake on the island bar, yeah, better look at that when they came back. The television was still broken on top of its IKEA brand table, and their tea set lay unattended and without tea next to the Girl Scout cookies purchased earlier. Aversa’s makeup kit was strewn about the hallway floor, and if she really, really tried hard enough, she could see that Tharja left her bedroom door open, and lord knows what kind of stuff lurked in there.

They really needed to get their shit together.

“Are you going to stand there and contemplate the meaning of the universe all day, or…?” Aversa taps Robin’s head with her hand, and the girl rolls her eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah, definitely. Let’s go, biscuit.” 

Aversa  _hmphs,_ and leads their parade out, and into the garage. As they’re mounting their bikes, she asks Robin a question.

“Why the hell do you call me biscuit? Have you seen yourself in the mirror lately, I mean, out of the three of us, I’m the one who’s actually been sticking to their diet, and—”

“Whoah, who said anything about diets?”  Robin grabs her helmet from one of the off-white shelves, she dusts it off before securing it over her head. 

“I call you biscuit because you’re flaky as fuck.” 

That shut her up.

Their engines come to life, they fill the silence, as they race out of their cul de sac and onto the main street. 


	2. skinned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tharja tells the worst love story ever. Aversa considers moving out, but it's only a fleeting thought.

Who they were, well, that wasn’t really important or necessary to know, considering they were the scum of the earth, a stupid man in a stupid hat, with a stupid,  _lecherous_ grin plastered on his stupid face. Tharja didn’t like that, no, not at all, she was already whispering the incantation she only knew too well—a simple _flux_ spell would be more than enough for a pig like him. 

She didn’t have to do a single thing, in the end. 

That back alley, with that gross, tie-wearing dude and his rusty switchblade, yeah, um, that alley doesn’t exist anymore. 

"You see," Tharja says, with a twitchy grin, "Robin destroyed it!! It was really, really  _really_  cool.”

Aversa’s not sure she wants to hear this story, but she lets Tharja lilt on, because once she started talking, there was no shutting her up. 

.

.

.

“Hey, baby girl, how much?” 

Robin wasn’t a fan of walking down this street. or any streets. Really. If her bike wasn’t in the garage right now, getting a mirror fixed, she would be home by now. God. She doesn’t bother giving the man an irritated glance, because he wasn’t worth even that. She was tired, fucking cold, and really ready to go to sleep. Yeah, sleep. That sounded heavenly right now.

She pulled her hair into a ponytail and kept walking, there was no need to stop. She didn’t bother patting down her leather skirt, either, because fuck that. Fuck. Ugh. From the corner of her eye, she could see the man, in his suit and tie, a businessman after a long day at the firm, probably, maybe a stockbroker, he wore a really nice hat. She could appreciate a hat like that, under different circumstances. 

Walk faster. 

Nah.

She kept her leisurely pace, edging towards the road, cars zoomed past, going maybe ten, or twenty miles over the speed limit, they all had places to be, families to take care of. They were not twenty something year olds without a penny to their name. 

The mere thought is ridiculous.

Robin pursed her lips and stuffed her hands into her jacket. She ducked into the alleyway behind Seven-Eleven, a shortcut. She was almost home. _Hoooooome_ , home meant sleep, home meant peeling off the layers of makeup and the gloves, and the thigh highs. She really needed to get some garter belts for those, because they were sliding off and it was getting really irritating pulling them back up.

“I said, how  _much?_ ” 

The man caught up to her. Robin allowed herself the pleasure of one sigh. One, single sigh. She turned around, dark eyes already running intel, okay, a couple of exits, a glass-littered floor, he’s maybe five inches taller than her, definitely twice her weight, a mix of muscle and fat, okay—oooh, a switchblade. Party  _foul._

It was definitely against the rules. 

Good thing she didn’t play by them, either. 

He tried to be menacing, but let’s be completely honest, it was a kind of pathetic looking scene. He waved the knife around (add drunk to the analysis, Robin noted) and put one hand on her shoulder. His fingers pressed against her sweatshirt, splay across her collarbone, and slip underneath her bra strap. 

_Disgusting_.

Robin snaps.

And Tharja is a second away from ripping the man’s intestines out, she’s at the base of the street, daisy dukes riding up her thighs, dark jacket thrown to the side, hands at the ready—two fingers crossed and one hand gripping her spell book. An exhale would send this man reeling, dark magic burns brightest at night, you know. She has no idea who Robin is, she just sees a girl, maybe about her age, her height, someone that could very much be  _her_ , and she was not going to let a single fucking thing happen to her. Something in her blood sings to Tharja, and she’s ready to take the bait: hook, line, and sinker. 

_But_ she doesn’t have to, because Robin snaps, the silver haired magician makes miracles out of grayscale, her fingers snap together and she’s crackling with electricity, her face lights up, shadows dance across her sharp features, and Tharja sees fear in the man’s eyes. Absolute fear. 

And it’s beautiful. It’s absolutely beautiful. 

Her lighting bolt goes right through his chest, the blast ricochets and leaves only despair in its wake. Tharja lifts her arms up, covers her eyes, and waits for the light to fade. It only takes a couple of seconds before the man stops gurgling, and falls to the side, with a gaping hole in his stomach. The blood drips slowly, and Tharja can only stare, mouth open wide, as the silver haired girl gets up, and peels off her jacket, and then her sweatshirt. She’s standing in the alleyway with her tanktop and skirt, dark lines dance around her arms and whatever of her back is exposed. Feathery wings, in amethyst, in onyx. Tharja can make out six, maybe, give or take. 

_Damn._

Robin turned her gaze towards Tharja, who was still in cursing position. She smiles.

“Thanks for the backup.” She stretched her arms out before putting on her layers again. Tharja blinks, and throws her hair back, propping a hand on her jutted hip.

“No problem, anything for a gorgeous girl like you.” Tharja grinned, and offered a ringed hand. Robin took it with her gloved left. “I’m Tharja. Dark mage, my job’s to fuck people up.” 

“Robin. I like that.” 

Tharja’s gaze trailed back to the girl’s arms. Robin snickered. They start walking out, towards Robin’s apartment complex, and towards streetlights and civilization. 

“You interested in the tats? I just got them retouched.” 

The black-haired woman tilted her head, and wondered where they were going. They weren’t going anywhere in particular, really. Just towards an apartment complex entrance, but then they kept walking past it, just down the sidewalk. Tharja asked her about her life, her job, what she was up to, and Robin answered with an airy laugh, _oh_ , she was a programmer for some company, it was a late shift tonight, and she just really wanted to get some sleep, to be honest, but after that exciting turn of events, she didn’t think that was possible. It was past midnight, and Tharja had nothing to do, anyway, so they kept walking.

And that was how she met the love of her life. Tharja grabbed onto her hand, and Robin didn’t let go. And she decided she would never let her go. 

Robin was a miracle she wasn’t going to lose. 

.

.

.

“And then I went to her house, and she let me sleep on her couch. I got these tats a couple weeks after, she introduced me to her favorite artist.” Tharja points at her stomach, where forget me nots and dark roses mingled, strewn across her hips. She places her hands on her face, and coos. 

Aversa gags. 

“Worst. story. ever.” 


	3. mayflower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin tries to convince Aversa that Tharja is actually a very charming young lady, and that they should become better friends. Aversa is less than impressed.

> “It can be like a pact,” She said, tapping her soft, tan stomach. “Me, and you, and the mayflowers.”

“It would’ve been a lot more romantic if she realized that she was getting roses and shit tattooed, not mayflowers.” Robin’s story of romance starts off even worse than Tharja’s, and Aversa asks herself: Is staying in this house really, really worth it? 

(Yes, every time yes, it’s an inconvenient truth, but it’s a gospel one.) 

“The tattoo artist thought she was drunk, she was so giddy. I mean, Tharja’s been to the shop for piercings, and according to Henry, she’s never been so excited about something in her entire life.”

Right, Henry. The silver haired menace. Aversa stretches her legs out on the coffee table, and topples over his favorite possum, another victim of his taxidermy. The once frolicking piece of roadkill stares with a glassy, and very dead, gaze. She has yet to meet him, despite his popularity in the household. Tharja and Henry went way back, both from the same shitty neighborhood in the depths of Plegia. Story goes that eleven year old Henry found a wolf with a broken leg, and protected it from a pair of older kids, and got really scuffed up in the process. The bullies, on the other hand, were found in a ditch a couple days later, with the tell-tale signs of poison-induced deaths, and awfully intricate runes all over their faces. Ten year old Tharja, with her mother’s salves and herbs, and Henry with his awful, awful hexes, killed two people to save a wolf that would die from its injuries a couple days later.

Of course, that was just a rumor. 

Aversa’s gaze flickers towards her hands, her fingernails were getting chipped, she really needed to invest in a manicure. It would be a lot more worthwhile than listening to her boss babble about her girlfriend. God. Where they even dating? They talked about each other like they were married for god’s sake. No one careeeeeeeeed. Aversa has better things to do. Her schedule was filled to the brim, honest. She had men to ruin, streets to patrol, people to see. 

So why was she subjecting herself to  _this?_

The woman starts braiding her long, white hair and lets Robin speak.

“Henry works at the parlor, he’s the guy who does all the piercings. I was surprised I hadn’t seen him before, considering all things.” 

She’s referring to the several holes in her ears. God. How many silver studs did she need. The industrial barbell was trashy as hell. If Robin was to go to an airport, she’d be detained by the TSA for being half-metal, half-human. 

“So, Tharja just, shrugs off her jacket and hands the artist a very detailed sketch. I think she went kind of overboard with the google images, but it was a really nice picture. She wanted a bunch of flowers, she got roses and pansies and forget me nots. The artist, he’s awfully pretty for a place like that, now that I think about it. Libra’s my favorite guy, but he just, screams Sunday school savant.” 

Aversa knows the design well enough. Tharja’s wardrobe consisted of short shorts, crop tops, gaudy jewelry, and the once in a blue moon cloak or jacket. It didn’t leave much to the imagination. She had an outline of a rose in full bloom, with little tiny thorns, on her left thigh. She also had forget me nots scattered across her abdomen and sides, the design was reminiscent of a watercolor painting. 

She hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting their tattoo artist, though. Her usual fix was a ginger named Gangrel, who she lovingly nicknamed "Gangrene”. 

“Anyway, so, Libra starts inking, and Tharja’s just, mesmerized. She’s got an awfully pretty look on her face, it’s a welcome change when her default expression is surly as hell, hahaha. She’s wincing a little bit, but I think overall, it was a pretty painless experience, Libra’s really, really good.” 

Aversa almost wants to ask her to speed it up a bit, she really didn’t need the nitty gritty details of Tharja’s tattoo experience. Or any of their experiences together, to be completely honest. She shakes her hair out, and pulls her legs up onto the couch, curls up and places her chin on her knees. Siiiiiiiigh. Her maxi skirt pools around her hips, and Robin stops mid-sentence to raise her eyebrows, and give Aversa an almost surprised expression, lips parted and eyes wide. 

“God, ‘versy, to think you’d try to seduce me half way through my story. Am I really that boring?” 

Aversa shakes her head. “No, asshole, keep talking. My legs are cramping up.” 

Robin shrugs, and tucks a strand of silver behind her pierced ear. “No skin off my ass. You don’t have to listen to me, I just started talking because you weren’t leaving.” 

With an argument like that, Aversa would look like a tool. Fuck robin, and her fucking mastery over words. 

“God, you suck.” 

Robin smiles, placid and ever-calm, linking her hands in front of her and stretching. 

"Regardless, Tharja and I got matchin’ tats now. You should definitely join us. I might make it a prerequisite for membership.” She peels off her hoodie and pulls off her favorite pair of leather gloves, showing off a dark tan hand. On the top of her hand, Aversa spots the tattoo in question. Fresh ink. Violet purple, nearly black, six little eyes stare right back. 

“It’s the sigil we got on our jackets. Didn’t know you were that attached.” 

Robin flexes her hand, clearly delighted. Aversa can’t help but grin, too. Ugh. Her excitement was infectious. 

“It’s a very important symbol!” She chirps. She lays back on her couch, kicks off her hoodie onto the floor, and sighs contentedly. “It hurt really bad, but whatever. It was worth it.” A pause. 

“Anyway, so, after Tharja got her tats, I dunno, we just started clicking more. I always thought she was kind of out there, but she’s actually really great. She does a lot for me, and knows me a lot better than I would like to admit, haha. She’s still kind of creepy, but that’s kind of charming.” 

Ughhhhhhhh.

“Will this story ever end? I have a date.” Aversa decides it’s time to take her leave, before she’s subjected to another seminar on the charms that Tharja supposedly possesses. She gets up and out of her seat, straightens her skirt, and cruises to the hat rack, where she grabs her favorite sunhat and sunglasses. Ugh, maybe she should’ve worn a shorter skirt, riding her bike was going to be a pain. 

“Oh come onnnnnnn, I still need to talk about our first date! Don’t gooooo.” 

She waves to the silver haired nerd and disappears, skedaddling out the front door.


	4. cigarette smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In cities like these, there's always unnecessary drama. 
> 
> Robin just wished they would stop interfering with her Civilization V game.

“Community service is good for us! Karma points! Exciting adventures to tell our significant others around the dinner table during Christmas time!”  

“I’m Muslim.” 

“You’re my significant other.”

“Ladies, pick up the pace! These walls will not clean themselves!”  

Robin deflates as Aversa snickers, throwing her hair back, like she was on the cover of _Elle_ magazine, in a beautiful, tight-fitting, Oscar de la Renta gown, rather than the mandatory orange of an ill-fitting jumpsuit. Tharja sighs, ever the bright ray of sunshine, and puffs out her cheeks until Robin’s certain she’s had her fill of self-pity. 

“Why did we paint these walls like monkeys on acid…” Tharja grumbles, dark eyes scanning the ginormous wall that made up a section of the North Wall’s shopping center. It went on for miles, and was once a pristine white, which made it a perfect canvas for gangs all over the city. The lines bicker and mingle on the ivory surface until its a patchwork disaster of colors and shapes, a small, drawn-to-scale arena for the turf wars happening a couple blocks away. 

“That was a certainly creative statement.” 

“Who the hell are you?” 

Tharja snaps at a red-haired woman, someone in their age range with a killer grin and an index finger on their chin, green eyes bright and interested. She wears the orange jumpsuit like Aversa, with pride and with style, a cute bandana tied around her neck. She gives the brunette a shining smile, something you would expect on the ads for Colgate, or other dentistry related spreads.

“Tut tut, darling, prices aren’t the only thing I cut.”  

“Bitch, do you want to fight? I’ll curse you up to your eyeballs.” 

Tharja reaches for her phone and Robin swiftly intervenes before the Witch makes good on her statement. The emerald eyed girl twirls a switchblade in her left hand, and Aversa raises a plucked brow.

“You _would_ be the one to bring a knife to a fist fight, Anna.” 

The girl grins at her name, and Robin blinks. 

“You know her, ‘Versy?” 

Anna pockets her knife and gives Aversa a sparkly look, something bright and burning and terrifying, she puts her hands on her hips, sways from side to side. The ladies all abandon their post and move their conversation to behind one of the painted walls, somewhere Phila, their most definitely not favorite officer would not see them. She was a hassle to deal with when upset, and none of them really wanted to face the wrath of Ylisstol’s best today.

“Who doesn’t? She’s got the black market on lock around these parts.” Aversa chips at her fading nail polish before continuing. “I’m surprised she hasn’t hooked you guys up with anything.” 

Robin shrugs.

“My usual dealer’s Gaius, he’s got what I need. I don’t really gotta look anywhere else.”

Anna sneers.

“He’s not as good as me, I can assure you. What do you want? Black tar? Snow coke? I’ve got whatever you need, sweet pea.” She winks.

Tharja’s scowl deepens. 

“Uh, actually, I’m more of a computer person. I've got this gaming rig, and he brings me parts for it. Kind of wish I wasn't here.” Robin sighs, and looks at her hands. "I have a Civ V game going on, and Gandhi's got me beat." 

The silence is deafening.

“Oh.” 

Aversa clears her throat, and puts her hand over her mouth, feigning surprise.

“How charming, really."

Anna crosses her arms over her chest, and turns her head. Her red pony-tail bounces with every irritated step. 

“It doesn’t matter, frosted flake—“ Robin and Tharja exchange a snicker at the new nickname for their oldest member. “—I’ve got the market down at my feet, whatever you want, I’ve got. It’s kind of an Anna thing, a long lineage of dealers.”  

She pauses, and makes a noise of contempt. “That is, we were, before amateurs started clogging up the work space. We’ve got gangs swarming all over the place, tryin’ to take a piece of the place for themselves. Not you guys, don’t worry about it, to be completely honest, if any of you tried to take on the job, it would be kind of a disaster.” 

She giggles. 

Robin makes a flat line with her lips, and wishes her had her favorite tome on hand.

“But,” Anna reasons, tapping away at her chin with a manicured nail. “The glory hogs are better than the snitches. Have you heard of the Shepherds? They’ve been messing with my sisters down sorth, and the only reason I’m not rotting behind bars is because their leader likes me.” 

This piques their interest.

“The shepherds?”

“Prison time?”

“Did you sleep with him? That does sound like a _wonderful_ way to get new allies.” 

No one bothers reacting to Aversa’s comment. 

“Your buddy Gaius, and I, we got caught red-handed. The Shepherds were working with Sunshine over there,” Anna points at Phila’s back before continuing. “And we had two choices, stay behind bars for a litany of crimes we couldn’t deny, or join them. Gaius took the job with a charming grin, shook the boss’ hand, and was rewarded with pixie sticks and lollipops, like a kid.” 

Anna scrunches up her nose and Robin tries to keep her face nondescript. Patience. 

“I joined up, too, so I’m their official dealer. Which is _awful_ , I kind of enjoyed being the only neutral party in this shit hole.” She smiles. 

Aversa’s leaning back on the building, the awning’s shade hiding her features momentarily. Her white hair billows, fans out and finally, stays on top of her chest, she’s thinking. No one likes it one bit.

“You want to go back to ruling the streets, Anna?”  

“Of course.”

The confirmation makes Aversa smirk.

“All right. Oi, Morningstar.” 

“God, we promised not to use the stupid nicknames outside of the business.” 

“This is pretty goddamn business-like, don’t you think?” 

Aversa tugs on Robin’s jumpsuit sleeve and pulls her back, she towers over her and robin finds it futile even trying to go for the jugular. Her hand bruises her wrist and it’s just, completely unfair, she was still healing from their last stint, and this bit—

“We gotta take them down, Rob-rob. They’ll be gunning for us next, if we’re not careful. As much as I would _love_ to get acquainted with their mysterious leader, I also enjoy roaming the streets without snitches breathing down my back.” 

Tharja speaks up, finally. She’s tapping away at her smart phone, and waves the scratched screen in front of Robin’s unsuspecting face. Her pudgy fingers tap at a person’s shoulder. There’s a brand there, in the color of chains.

“Their boss’ name is Chrom, people call him the Princeling.” Tharja’s tone is acidic. 

The girl tugs a silver strand of hair out of her ponytail, twists and pulls, Anna thinks it peculiar the way her eyes close and her body hunches over, she makes herself smaller. She tilts her head in question, looks towards Tharja and Aversa, who keep their distance. 

“We’re not going to do anything about him. I’m sorry Anna, but you’ll have to go to someone else with your revenge plot.” 

Robin stands up straight, arches her back, lifts her chin up, and Anna finally sees why they call her the Morningstar—Lucifer’s own. There’s something wicked in her gaze, something wicked in her soul, she strides past Anna, careful not to brush against her arm, glides past the brownstone walls. 

Tharja follows without question. Aversa lets out the smallest of sighs, and glances at Anna, gives her a pitiful look. 

“Sorry, hun.” 

Anna watches them go, watches them disappear into the regulated orange and black. She sighs, unzips her top, and fishes her phone out of her bra. 

“Sorry, I couldn’t get them to take the bait. I’ll keep in contact. Bye.” 

Anna turns to go.

The walls are witness to all, colors and shapes bleed into one another, until words take form, the color of ivy, the print impeccable. 

_FUCK YOUR BAD REPUTATION._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said i was going to have this chapter out like a month ago but Oops, thank u for reading regardless. salutes.


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